


Body Worship

by occasional_boy_reporter



Series: Kinktober 2018 [15]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Body Worship, M/M, Timur determined to get some...answers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16465619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasional_boy_reporter/pseuds/occasional_boy_reporter
Summary: Oh boy. This scene got so out of hand, I had to rewrite it to nip a another Gay Epic in the bud.





	Body Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. This scene got so out of hand, I had to rewrite it to nip a another Gay Epic in the bud.

 

  If he was the breathing sort, Felwinter's lungs would be burning by now. Of course he possesses the capacity for reaction through a plethora of other physical or vocal means but they all seem too large, too dramatic, too likely to ruin the spell being cast by the pad of a single finger as it traces the line of each of Felwinter's exposed fingers.

  Down, the finger glides, to the squared tip of Felwinter's own before it retraces its descent in the same teasing whisper of pressure. At the top again, warm flesh circles a protruding, metal knuckle methodically before moving to the adjacent finger to begin the process anew.

  Books and maps are spread out on the table in the grand hall of Felwinter's keep, barely touched, words swimming like careless fish in paper ponds when Felwinter’s optics attempt to focus on them. Beneath the table, hidden by dark wood and darker shadows, the single finger continues its methodical exploration into the valley between fingers and thumb. The Exo jolts when a blunt nail digs into the seam between plating and flexible cover of palm below. Thumb joins finger in order to soothe with slow strokes and Felwinter finally dares to look at his molester.

  Timur's lips are pursed and stretched, too kind to be a smirk but too full of intent to be a friendly smile. And his eyes. Bright and ravenous. Timur is always starving and as dangerous as any beast for it.

  Timur whispers above the crackle of the nearby hearth fires, his boundless appetite for answers to questions and riddles causing him to lick his lips before he can ask, “What are you?”

  Felwinter doesn't draw away his hand but allows Timur to turn it palm up on the Exo's own thigh and continue exploration of the softer material with all the sensors beneath. Felwinter loses the first of what is sure to be many of Timur's 'games’ when he looks away.

  “What are _you,_  Lord Timur?” The Exo counters as he pretends to skim the inky fish in front I him.

  “A man,” Timur replies readily and swirls his finger in the cup of a captive palm. “Blood and skin, fears and aspirations, regrets and desires.”

  Oh yes, Felwinter's lungs would be burning, his skin alight with his own blood if he were man.

  “Now you know me and I ask again: What are you, _Lord Felwinter_?”

  Such a vague composition could hardly be qualified as knowing, but when Timur dips his voice to whisper Felwinter's name, the Exo is sure they share at least one truth. Doubly sure when he realizes a migrant finger has become an entire tribe of digits mapping his wrist beneath the hem of his sleeve.

   Laughter echoes in a whisper- other Iron Lords as they go about their evening in nearby chambers- but Timur pays them no more mind than the eyes of the paintings and carvings that line the public dining and meeting hall.

  “Are you meant to emulate man?” Timur questions, lips brushing heated plating where a human ear would be. “Or meant to be something better?”

  The Exo seizes, inner workings hiccuping in response to conflicted stimuli readings as one hand creeps ever slowly up the lines of his arm and another squeezes his knee in much bolder fashion. The noise that escapes him is unbidden and foreign and somehow too breathless for a creature without need of air. But he leans his temple against Timur's brow and makes the noise again when long fingers drag from the crook of his elbow, across the inside of his thigh.

  “Do you have the same weaknesses I do? The same needs?”

  Felwinter's mouth opens again in strangled confession and Timur's hands fly from plating to the buttons and folds of robes. He should be protesting the push and pull as he's dragged from his seat but moans instead.

  Spread over the table and its neglected sea of research, pinned atop his robes like a clock ready to be taken apart piece by piece, Felwinter shivers. But Timur only mentally takes him apart, unraveling the mystery of intersecting plates and psuedo-muscle with his eyes and fingers as they stroke and dig. In the sparse moments Felwinter manages to bully his optics functional against the thrill of touch, it’s always the intensity of Timur's gaze that shuts them down again. At its height, Timur's intent flirts along the border of insanity. When Timur leans close to whisper against his mouth, Felwinter hopes the madness will last long enough to see a proper kiss.

  “How human are you?”

  "I'm sure," Felwinter makes that desperate, breathless noise again and arches against the hands tracing each glowing light of his torso, "that you are the right man to find out."

 


End file.
